Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is… to make freedom real. James Baldwin[1] Hip-Hop should listen to Marco Polo & Torae more.[2] On Crashing Down, a prophetic track off the duos latest LP, Double Barrel, the hook goes:
Whatchu gon do when the walls come crashing down?/ How you feel?/ Ask me, Im doing fine/ Im asking, whatchu gon do when the walls come crashing down?/ This crashing down they speak of is something record labels would rather not talk about, rather not discuss, rather not address. But, as the 19th century poet, Cullen Bryant, might inform, truth crushed to earth shall rise again. This crashing down is the end and death of record labels as weve known them. Total destruction. And this is no time for melancholy. Indeed, its a time for celebration, a time for jubilation, a time for exhilaration. Theres a reason Hip-Hop was conceived in the belly of South Bronx streets, and not midtown Manhattan skyscrapers/ Where former hustlers sign papers/ And do fu**ed-up capers/.[3] This reality, however, never really mastered great impression on the minds of middle-age White executives, who, for two decades, ran the Hip-Hop industry like a slave ship, holding artists hostage; who, for two decades, ran the Hip-Hop industry like a plantation, dictating to Black artists the conditions of freedom, and turning out once lyrical masterminds into commercial cows for an uninformed publics consumption. The artists were bound by deceptive contractual obligations, forced to partake in activities that went against personal principles. But they took the pain in silence. They carried the cross without complaint, invested in hope of a day when their sacrifices would turn ripe the fruits of freedom. Well, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, that day, that moment, is upon us. Tennessee rapper Young Buck understands this better than most others. On Breach of Contract, a recent mixtape single, he raps: We turn the cotton into marijuana fields/ Then work like slaves, just to try to pay the bills/.[4] Rappers have, indeed, worked like slaves to furnish the lavish lifestyles of record label executives. They tirelessly tilled the grounds these suit-wearing plantation-owners reaped great harvest from. But now, emancipation begins. To put food on the table, many mainstream acts signed their names to record deals that insulted the dignity they were raised with. They did it not because of a desire to spit on the Black faces that supported their careers from day 1, but because they understoodor, rather, thought they didthe game, and how it had to be played. These rappers poked out [their] a**es for a chance to cash in,[5] and the [shady] record company people[6] made good use of it. Very few of these slaves to their labels owned their Masters.[7] Most were simply slaves. Period. These artists knew they had to put on the Blackfaceoften the only available escape from a past mired in poverty. For those brief moments, the Blackface became more than an opportunistic cosmetic supplementunlike Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer (1927). It became a permanent feature. So, for some, songs like Chain Hang Low, Chicken Noodle Soup, Fry Dat Chicken, and Whip It Like A Slave,[8] didnt invoke memories of shame and sadnessreminder of a time when Black actors and actresses were forced to work like dogs for chicken change. Not at all. Those memories had taken up a new formreality. The New York Daily News took note of this trend in 2006.[9] Errol Louis, columnist for the paper, noted the similarity between some of the times most popular songs, and 200-year-old minstrel hits. St. Louis rapper Jibbs 2006 chart-topping single, Chain Hang Low, was revealed, first by a New York Times music critic, to have borrowed inspiration from Zip Coona famous minstrel hit from the Blackface era. In mention also was 50 Cents diamond-selling 2003 album, Get Rich or Die Tryin, which, Louis wrote, carried an unmistakable echo of a hit minstrel song from 1856 called Root Hog or Die. The lyrics of the song, he explained, bore frightening resemblance to the themes explored in Get Rich or Die Tryin: Im right from old Virginny, with my pocket full of news/ I’m worth twenty shillings right square in my shoes/ It doesn’t make a dif of bitternance to neither you nor I/ Big pig or little pig root, hog or die. Louis continued: Its sad to see musically untrained youngsters shucking and jiving for a bit of money and fame. Most could never dream of succeeding in a serious artistic setting like a church choir, dance ensemble or jazz band, places that require study, discipline and hard work. Many would be swiftly laughed off the stage. It is true that many of these, for a lack of a better word, artists have no talent or skill worth the time and money record labels spend marketing them. No question. It is also true, however, that the record label executives have been consistent in selling to the fans manufactured noise as music, undaunted by the truism that for every action theres a reaction. * * * In its three decade commercial history, Hip-Hop has undergone a series of stages, morphing from a spiritual culture of resistance into an on-demand pill big companies see fit to digest whenever in need of cultural authenticity.[10] But, besides the artists, the only victims in this tragic-comic tale, it seems, are the fans of color. Black and Brown fans have been told to shut up, sit quietly, and watch the wonders of executive-thinking unfold. True enough, everything went according to plan, but the outcome was farthest from ingenuity. In return, we witnessed young artists of no recognizable skill get placed in line ahead of veterans and certified lyricists. What took flesh, as a result, was a torrent of talentlessness that made many question the validity of Hip-Hop as a critical art-form. This brand of label politics ensured that highly-anticipated albumsalbums Hip-Hop needed so […]
